The Lord of Farce and Ire
by TheSilverBirch
Summary: Hideous forces have been unleashed by Benioff and Weiss' horrible twisting of GRR Martin's titanic struggle for the Iron Throne - and have reverberated round the real world universe to knock a hole clean through the fictional fantasyverse! The Night King and Sauron have teamed up to destroy fantasy fiction as we know it. Can our fictional heroes defeat this real world evil?
1. Chapter 1

The phantom scream sliced the frozen night air with the power of a thousand fiery blades, and young Bran Stark felt a chill of true terror run down his spine as he heard the horrible tearing sound of reality itself splitting asunder.

He watched in confusion as his yelling sister appeared out of nowhere, and casually dispatched the Night King with the small catspaw dagger he'd given her to stab up Littlefinger mere episodes ago. He scratched his head.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go down.

This wasn't the vision he'd seen in the weirwood trees, north of the Wall.

This wasn't the way to destroy his silent, deathless adversary – he was sure of it.

All the other Three Eyed Ravens had been sure of it too – he'd had a mental teleconference with them a few days ago just to check, and he was pretty sure they'd agreed some sacrificial offering was needed to defeat the Night King's relentless march of death on the living world of Planetos.

Frowning, he stepped back into his hivemind again for a second, checking the immaculate data repository that the Ravens had collected over the years – containing every detail that had ever happened in the Seven Kingdoms, and all indexed under searchable categories like a sophisticated digital web crawler – and whined over at his big sister.

"You're not supposed to be here. No one's supposed to be here."

"It's a mercy he's dead already, Bran! Dany's lost nearly her entire army, Jon's being attacked by the ice dragon, and the corpses in the crypts will be murdering Sansa and Tyrion any minute now. I had to kill him. I had to kill him, or we'd all be dead!"

Arya was grinning at him in delight, thinking she'd saved Season Eight along with the fictional inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms, but all the Three-Eyed Raven felt was a weary sense of pity for her.

"You don't understand. It's like the Last Jedi, all over again."

His sister opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, a flash of brilliant blue lightning tore the sky above their heads, hitting the weirwood tree and sending swirls of violet flames into its gnarled wooden face.

The tree screamed in fury as it burned (just like the dreams of an entire fandom).

The Three-Eyed Raven closed his eyes, at last seeing the horrible truth, and wondering how he could make any of his friends understand the enormity of what had just happened to their whole fictional fanverse.

"Seven hells, Bran – what was that?"

And as both Stark siblings stared into the glowing purple eyes of the screaming weirwood tree, the face around it slowly dissolved into blackness – a blackness that grew larger and larger until it swallowed the entire tree.

And then in that blackness – details emerged. They could see another town in the vision – covered in snow, just like Winterfell was. They could feel a chill breeze blowing out at them from that distant location, and smell the weird and exotic scent carried on the foreign wind.

"Bran? Is this _really bad_?"

His sister was unsure of herself now, he could see it in her face – and it deepened his human unease.

It was the first time Arya had displayed any vulnerability at all for nearly an entire season, and he knew in his infinite knowledge that she must sense the deep trouble they were all in, even without Sansa to spill the beans and proclaim the news all over the Winterfell Godswood.

But he had no comforting words for her this time. Instead, he met her wide brown eyes with a creepy, emotionless stare that would have chilled the Night King – had he not already been made of solid ice and immune to displays of human feeling – and steeled himself to deliver the most genuinely profound line of dialogue he'd ever uttered.

"It's beyond really bad, Arya. It's _Benioff and Weiss_..."

And as the two youngest Starks stared into the gaping plothole opening up between worlds, what remained of the disintegrating magic weirwood tree seemed to cackle evilly, mocking not only the surviving Stark family – but the entire world of Ice and Fire, and its real world fandom too.


	2. Chapter 2

And many fanverses away from the Battle of Winterfell, the plots of another fantasyverse were also growing dark and full of terrors...

The Lady Galadriel was looking into her moon-pool and seeing the purple flames for herself, licking high into the night sky around Ground Zero in the Winterfell Godswood, and burning with a fury hot enough to melt the very barriers that existed between fictional worlds.

She pointed at the watery image of the fire, just in case Gandalf and Elrond couldn't see from their vantage points beside her, and shook her head.

"The world is changed, gentlemen. I see it in the water, and I can feel it in the earth. Much that once worked, has gone for good. For the terrible writing of Benioff and Weiss has unleashed forces strong enough to tear a hole through our shared fictional fantasyverse, and I fear none may now stop what we all know is coming."

Beside her, the grey wizard looked up sharply.

Lord Elrond flinched, and tried to style it out by pretending to wipe his face.

Gandalf took another glance into the glowing purple water, and shook his head in disbelief.

"But Galadriel – surely you don't mean it?"

The graceful elf queen could only nod sadly.

"Yes, Gandalf. I'm afraid it's true. Winter is coming."

Lord Elrond snorted, unwilling to even listen to this overblown and overhyped boast from the recesses of past HBO seasons.

"The Night King is _dead_, Galadriel. Haven't you been reading the books? He was taken down by Azor Ahai in the ancient seat of the Starks, at Winterfell, after the reforging of Lightbringer, and the Nissa-nissa-ing of the true love of – "

Gandalf cleared his throat, trying to signal to Elrond to stop digging.

"I'm afraid you are mistaken, Lord Elrond. Those GRR Martin books remain unwritten. And on the tv series, the plot deviated from the unwritten canon, and now the whole world of Planetos is in complete and utter disarray. The scenes we have all seen in the moon-pool confirm it. Winter is indeed coming – it is coming for all of us, even if our fanverses have nothing to do with a Song of Ice and Fire."

But the Lord of Rivendell was unmoved.

"Middle Earth is a separate fanverse, Gandalf. Everyone knows that! The Night King cannot harm us over here. We have plot armour that can match that of Jon Snow himself – because we're as equally disconnected from the politics of King's Landing as he has been up on the Wall!"

But as always, Galadriel was the voice of reason among the bickering men.

"The Song of Ice and Fire is based on an underlying trope that connects it to Middle Earth, Lord Elrond. If the Night King has managed to channel real world fan fury at the fantasy genre in general, then our world will suffer too. He shall be able to travel through this portal with his army of the dead, turning our well known fictional heroes into mindless ice zombies – and chasing us all with his frozen horses and ice spiders big as hounds."

Lord Elrond shook his head.

"We've got bigger spiders these days in Mirkwood. And we've got better armies than he does – my elves never miss a shot, particularly when they are fighting interchangeable faceless hordes and ridiculous CGI monsters."

He shared a glance at his two companions, seeking to reassure himself as much as the pair of them.

"We'll be fine, guys. If the Night King comes here, we'll just use our magic powers against him, or send the eagles in – that always works."

Gandalf withdrew his pipe from his robes, lighting it with a click of his fingers and taking a slow, thoughtful draw of the dangerously addictive and poisonous weed.

"The Deus Ex Eagles, of course. Is it not so, Galadriel? Maybe there is no cause at all for alarm."

But the elf queen closed her eyes, and the image in the waters began to change.

And in that limpid pool of psychism they could see the breach between worlds in real time. And already, minor and major characters alike were staring through the void in unthinking curiosity and preparing to crossover into the wrong fictional fanverses – and yet in all the mayhem, the Night King was nowhere to be seen.

"He is hiding from us, gentlemen. He is consorting with our Enemy as we speak. They shall join forces – the Night King and his ice zombies, allied with the evil fires of Mount Doom – and they shall try to take over all known fantasy fanverses, and kill off all the heroic characters they can find."

Gandalf spluttered on his toxic smoke, and Lord Elrond went quite pale.

"But... how?"

Galadriel's face was grim, and her voice was bitter.

"By the wholesale alienation of the real world fantasy fandoms, of course. It is only the interest of earthly people that keeps our own fictional world alive – you know this. And now the Night King has met his ignoble end at the hands of two talentless big-budget fanfic writers, he is hellbent on the mindless destruction of everything we all hold dear."

She shook her head in despair.

"Our fate is tied to Game of Thrones now, whether we like it or not."

A dejected silence descended over the three wise guardians of Middle Earth, until Gandalf's smoker's cough flared nastily, shattering their thoughts and causing both Galadriel and Elrond to politely back away from the hacking old wizard.

Regaining his composure at last, the old pipe smoker waved a hand, spreading the tobacco fumes further around Galadriel's sacred moon-pool.

"I'm alright now, just went down the wrong way is all."

The wizard looked into the waters, eager to say something smart to redeem his poise in front of the beautiful elf queen.

He'd been giving her the eye for six whole movies now, and he still hadn't even got to first base.

"Say, where is it that the breach has occurred? It's too dark for me to see in the moon-pool without my reading glasses."

Lord Elrond wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"It looks like somewhere around the Lonely Mountain to me. Isn't that huge expanse of water the Long Lake, by Escaroth?"

His companions nodded in silence, watching the violet flames reflecting on the waters of the Laketown crannogs, seeing the men and women coming out of their homes and pointing over at the glowing purple portal by the lake shore.

"It appears that way, Gandalf – but the breach will grow, and the tear will spread further, the more our fanverses come to overlap. Who knows then what will happen? Our canon offers no guidelines for misadventures of this kind."

She fixed him with a questioning stare.

"We must warn what remains of the elves, my friends. And the menfolk. And the dwarves. We must tell them all about the evil that is coming."

Lord Elrond rolled his eyes, and scowled.

"If you say so, my lady. I shall ride to Rivendell right away, and consult with my people."

He threw the grey wizard an icy glance full of unspoken meaning.

"You, my friend, are better placed to deal with the _others_. You should go to them at once, and warn them."

The grey wizard stared into the frigid eyes of the elf lord, and shivered.

If the armies of the dead really did attack Middle Earth, would the elves really stand with the other races, or would they retreat to their foreign continent over the sea, abandoning everyone else to spend the rest of eternity as undead ice zombies under the control of the evil Night King?

Who did they have that could truly unite the disparate peoples of Middle Earth, with their history of suspicion, betrayal, and grudge-bearing – now that Aragorn was happily shacked up with Arwen, and had lost interest in war and politics?

Maybe it was not just the Seven Kingdoms that needed Jon Snow.

Gandalf only prayed his story arc would survive the coming episodes, and he would not be forcibly undone as a hero in order to service some contrived plot tension or serve up empty shock value to his restless audience, now that Benioff and Weiss were both writing the scripts and directing the episodes.

For with the horrors of Season Eight in full swing, even the seers of Middle Earth were crossing their fingers and praying... to the Old Gods and the New.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note:** I actually wrote this chapter several months ago, before I watched the end of Season 8 and lost all interest in the "dumpster fire" (not my words, dear fans) that became GoT the HBO version. But still, I don't like leaving things incomplete, so thought I'd return to my story and crack on. It's not like it's possibly for any sentient mammal with a head to do a worse job than B&W, right?

**Chapter 3**

Ever since the Night King got jumped, the falling snow had been lighter and softer, and now – as the shellshocked Northern soldiers and suspicious Dothraki horsemen gathered round the former weirwood tree – it seemed to be stopping completely.

But deep in his bones, sad-eyed Jon Snow knew that something somewhere along the plotlines had gone hideously wrong for them all.

He could still feel the sense of lingering doom he'd felt at Hardhome, and knew well in his heart that the Night King couldn't be killed by a mortal weapon alone – even one wielded by a fine young assassin like his little sister.

Or was she his little cousin?

He wasn't really sure any more – he was so tired that thinking hurt too much, and he'd never been terribly good at it to begin with. Thinking was something that was better left to Sam, or one of the Maesters – or to the nearest passing woman.

There was always someone else prepared to do the thinking for him, and it left him more time to set the curls on his dark Stark hair just the way he liked.

He glanced over at Queen Daenerys, watching as she furrowed her brow angrily at the glowing purple portal. No doubt she'd have something to say. So he may as well just stand here and let her and Sansa decide what to do.

That had always worked well in the past.

And Dany didn't disappoint – she'd already come to a firm conclusion that actually felt true to her seven previous seasons of character development.

"I don't trust it, whatever it is. I think it's a trap."

She met the eyes of the assembled crowd in the Godswood, daring any of them to stare her and her eyebrows down.

"I say we let my dragons take care of it."

There was a murmur of agreement from the ranks of Dany's soldiers, which didn't surprise Jon. They all knew how clever Dany was, and she was the Queen, after all.

But the Starks and Northmen assembled beside him seemed less certain, and that was very loyal of them too – they were obviously taking their cue from Sansa, who was surely one of the cleverest of all people in the Seven Kingdoms by now – having sucked up Littlefinger's powers by osmosis last season after successfully subverting audience expectations that she was bickering with Arya.

He looked to his red-haired sister – or cousin, he still wasn't sure – and saw the thin lipped smile she always made at Dany's suggestions appear across her face.

He relaxed, glad that the two most powerful women in his life were getting on well and learning to work as a family together, even in these stressful times.

"I think that's an excellent idea, your grace."

Dany blinked in surprise, and stared hard at the redhead.

"You do?"

Sansa nodded graciously, and gazed at the portal.

"If you were to fly in there on your dragons and explore, I'd feel so much safer. After all, what harm could possibly come to you with Drogon by your side?"

The dragon queen appraised the crowd, seeing the ripple of curiosity that was spreading out from the portal, ensnaring the onlookers and swaying them to Sansa's cause.

They could all see the town behind the doorway – and the large shining mass of water lying still and quiet under the light of some unearthly full moon. And all of them were wondering what it could mean for the realm – and for the North.

Was this where the Night King had come from? Was this where he'd gone?

What would they do if he came back?

"I think you misunderstand me, Sansa. Whatever this doorway is, I say we burn it with dragon fire. That should send a clear message to whoever's on the other side – that I am the Queen, and this is my kingdom. That I have dragons."

Jon nodded, sensing that Daenerys had a clever point. The doorway could be crawling with wights – or worse. It was very clever of Dany to think of incinerating everything. That would show those ice zombies, or whatever.

With a hasty slurp of his Starbucks latte, the Hand of the Queen spoke up.

"Your grace, perhaps there is another way. After all, incinerating the army of the dead is all well and good – but there could be living people through there."

Daenerys glared over at the purple portal, evidently outraged at the concept of there being people close to hand who didn't recognise her rightful claim to the Iron throne.

"You're right, Tyrion. We should investigate further. Euron couldn't possibly be hiding his fleet somewhere as obvious as Dragonstone – they must all be in here on that lake!"

She swept her eyes around the crowd, assessing the most suitable candidates for ballista practise.

"Greyworm, you will take an escort of Unsullied and investigate this strange land. Seek out whatever people might live there, and find out whether they will bend the knee or not to their rightful queen. If they will not recognise my birthright – then they are obviously servants of the Usurpers, and you know what to do."

The Commander of the Unsullied nodded dutifully.

"Yes, your grace. It would be my pleasure to serve you and kill the usurpers."

"Your grace, if you'll excuse me – but wouldn't it be easier for _you_ to investigate yourself?"

Jon could hear the innocence in Sansa's strange suggestion, and wondered what she meant. She had been raised as nothing but a highborn lady, skilled at needlework, and yet she had one of the sharpest military minds in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms – sharper even than his.

And the redhead was smiling sweetly at their queen now.

"You could fly in, on your dragon, have a look around, and be back here in no time. It would take you five minutes."

The dragon queen looked doubtful, so Sansa gave her another needling.

"I'm sure you wouldn't want to risk the lives of your soldiers on the ground for no reason – who knows what's lurking on the other side of that doorway? Anything could come through and compromise the safety of the entire North – and surely your grace wouldn't want that?"

The Mother of Dragons watched the Lady of Winterfell in silence, and Sansa stared smugly back, waiting for Dany to take the bait she'd laid out in front of them all.

And after a brief pause, Daenerys Targaryen narrowed her eyes and addressed the crowd.

"I shall do this for you all, here and now. I shall fly in, on Drogon – and once again put my life on the line for the people of the North. As long as you all remember that I do this for you as your queen. And out of concern for your safety – as my people."

There was a general nod of approval from the crowd, and Jon saw Sansa's smile deepen, even as Tyrion shook his head in concern.

"Your grace, I beg you – you must not go in there all alone! At least take Ser Jorah or Greyworm with you, for your own protection. The realm needs its queen to return in one piece."

Daenerys appeared to consider, and met Jorah's stern blue eyes, shining with adulation as they gazed upon his beloved mistress.

"Khaleesi, please. Listen to your hand. Let me come with you."

But the queen was hesitant.

"I thank you for your offer, Ser Jorah – but I will not risk the lives of my loyal friends on this small errand."

The dragon queen's eyes flashed smugly back at the redhead, as she raised her hand and whistled – summoning the huge black dragon to her side in an instant and drawing gasps of awe from the Northmen beside Sansa.

"I shall return shortly, with a full report on our enemies' movements."

The dragon queen saddled up, and gave a final glance around the Winterfell Godswood.

"And we will destroy them together, with Fire and Blood!"

The Unsullied and Dothraki raised their weapons to the air and cheered, while the Northerners nodded unhappily.

And Jon Snow watched as his girlfriend – and aunt – urged her dragon onwards and flew clear through the portal to swoop down on the calm, shining waters on the other side.

It looked to be a whole new world over there, and the hairs on Jon Snow's neck stood up in fright as he wondered just how many enemies might lie in wait for them beyond that doorway, and whether what remained of their army would ever be enough to protect the North if the Night King did return.

His eyes swept across the crowd in the Godswood, falling on every one of his family members in turn – Arya, Sansa, Ghost – all silent and contemplative, obviously asking themselves the same basic questions, now they were confronted by this portentous portal of doom.

Where in seven hells was Bran?

And given that he claimed to know the secrets of everything in the universe past, present and future – why was the self-declared Three-Eyed Raven always so utterly useless to them all?


	4. Chapter 4

Note: Well, brave few readers. This fic has been a bit abandoned of late - generally because I'm no longer really a GoT fan anymore (in the words of Bran the Boneless: "I'm something else now"), and it's been many months since I could summon the mental energy to revisit anything even remotely related to ASOIAF.

But here I am, returned at last. So tell me, dear readers, who are your favourite characters from GoT now the dust has settled on the ashes of King's Landing? And who are your favourite Middle Earth characters? I'm curious, because I might try writing them into this story – since there's so many to choose from in the free-range fantasy fanverse, and I like to have something to aim for when I'm howling into the void!

* * *

Riding her massive fire-breathing dragon, Daenerys Targaryen flew through the purple portal between fictional worlds. Dazzling scenes the like of which only immortal seers and human prophets had witnessed in their wildest dreams confronted her from all sides in glorious technicolour, but she didn't notice the vistas of eternity as they crackled away.

She was too busy trying to remember the full recitation of her long list of titles. Normally she had staff in her employ to do such menial work, but this time she was going to have to rough it and make do on her own, and she worried her efforts would not garner the respect and admiration she so richly deserved.

"I am Daenerys Stormborn of the blood of Old Valyria and I have Dragons!"

She screamed the promise aloud as her scaly steed exited the portal and flew through the cool, night-time air of the snowy landscape, and nodded in self-satisfaction. It was the only real take-home message that all her new subjects needed to know – her other titles were mere vanities – icing on the cake of the inner Fire and Blood that everyone would do well to remember.

The dragon queen scanned the lakeside shanty town below and found a small crowd had already gathered gratifyingly to greet her and Drogon, and so the pair of them prepared to make landfall on a small pier next to the pleasingly flammable wooden buildings.

"Greetings, grateful subjects of...", Dany looked around for clues, shaking her head in distaste at the stale fishy odour that hung in the air.

"Of _wherever this place is_. I am Daenerys Stormborn, your new Queen – and I demand that you all bend the knee and bring me the Usurper's head!"

The crowd of shabbily dressed men and women looked around nervously, wondering what the strange silver lady wanted. One or two of them bowed and curtseyed, eyes following the scaly black dragon intently, and the slower ones soon followed suit.

One of the men – a handsome, dark haired archer with eyes as icy as Sansa Stark's, stood forward and offered his new queen a thin smile. He held a large metal ballista in the one hand, but Dany decided to hear what he had to say before roasting him alive with dragonfire.

After all, she didn't want to burn any of her _loyal_ subjects along with this obvious miscreant. She was merciful, judicious and wise like that – whatever the lying plotline in Season 8 would have you believe.

"My lady, this place is Laketown, where the River Running meets the Long Lake by the Lonely Mountain. And you and your _companion_ are most welcome here."

The man grimaced, obviously uneasy in the presence of Dany's monstrous beast, and nodded to the easily combustible huts and houses.

"We would be more than happy to bring you the Usurper's head, only I think you have the wrong town. The Usurper Aragorn lies behind the city walls of Gondor, a thousand miles hence. So if you are indeed searching for him, then you... might want to try over that way."

The man pointed with his free hand back the way Dany had flown, and she rolled her eyes. This man obviously took her for a fool.

"There are many Usurpers and traitors to the crown – but none by the name of Aragorn have stolen what is mine. Tell me, good subject, what is your name?"

The man offered her a little bow, alive to the threat in her words.

"I am Bard the Bowman, your majesty. How may I serve you?"

Dany scanned the man up and down critically. He was handsome in a scruffy sort of way, that much was true – and he did appear to be offering her courtesy. But on the other hand...

"You can tell me why you're carrying an offensive weapon such as that windlance to greet your new Queen's steed. Rather unfriendly, isn't it?"

Her voice came out a lot sharper than she'd intended, and the man paled somewhat.

"Majesty, meaning no offense, but we didn't know for sure that it was _you._ You see, we thought you might be Smaug the Terrible – the evil dragon that slumbers inside the mountain. We thought your steed might be him, and he'd come to destroy our – I mean _your_ – humble town."

Dany regarded the solitary mountain standing sentinel over the lakeside with a newfound sense of alarm. Was there really another dragon in there? What if there was _loads_ of dragons in this strange new world?

Shit.

What if Cersei Lannister was already here, and was allying herself with all these new dragons, and planning on bringing them all back to King's Landing for her own Southern armies?

The Usurpers would have more dragons than she did, that was what!

She would have to move fast, and regain the initiative – and take all the dragons, in this world and beyond.

Daenerys cleared her throat, staring haughtily down on her subjects to mask her deep-seated anxiety.

"I see. Well have no fear, loyal subjects. Unlike that pretender Cersei Lannister, those that bend the knee to me shall have the Queen's protection. And I am – among other things – the Mother of Dragons. I will speak to this _Smog_ inside the mountain, and all his friends, and they shall do no harm to your town."

The villagers seemed satisfied – and slightly nonplussed – by her line of argument, and Dany realised that word of Cersei had not yet reached this foreign world. The golden haired usurper's cursed family name meant nothing around these parts. And neither did her own, point of fact.

This whole new fanverse was hers for the taking, just like Aegon the Conqueror arriving in Westeros all those glorious centuries ago!

She should have brought some House Targaryen banners with her, and some Dothraki to hang them up! Maybe she should return for them immediately, and install some guards around her new town – she could even offer up some farmland to Tormund Giantsbane and keep the Northmen sweet. The Wildlings _liked_ desolate snow-covered peaks after all, and –

The man before her cleared his throat.

"Pardon me for asking, your majesty, but are you journeying to the mountain with those dwarves?"

Dany was jolted out of her victorious reverie.

"Dwarves? What dwarves?"

The dark haired man threw her a conspiratorial glance.

"The ones from the mountain, your majesty. One of them is the rightful king of it, you see. So maybe he'd help you on your quest. To slay this... Kirsty Lannister of whom you speak. You could take care of his dragon problem, and he could take care of your usurper problem."

Dany sniffed regally.

"I am quite capable of taking care of my own usurper problem."

Drogon hissed, and nodded towards the waters of the lake, reminding his mother of the fact that Euron could be hiding his Iron fleet anywhere, anytime – even here, in worlds seemingly untouched by Cersei and the HBO scriptwriting army.

She frowned.

"But perhaps I can reach some accord with this... dwarf king. Where is he? In the tavern, I expect? Why don't you fetch him for me, in the name of his queen?"

The man nodded with a smile.

"Oh, I'll pass on your summons, your majesty. I'm sure he will have plenty to say to you."

The man beckoned to a small boy, whispered some cryptic errand, and sent the child scampering back towards the tall kindling structures of the town.

Dany sighed, and turned to check the purple portal was still there – still floating in the sky like a real rip in the space-time continuum should. And there it was. If anything, it seemed bigger than when she'd last seen it in the Godswood – she could see the whole expanse of the Winterfell citadel lit up by torchlight from here in this bizarre world.

"What is that? Is it... where you came from?"

The bowman was staring back at the vision of Winterfell in the portal, with about as much relish as everyone normally did when they first spied the frozen wastelands of the North.

She turned back to the man, sympathetic to his sense of dismay. It reminded her of the first time she'd set eyes on the Stark family homestead.

"Not exactly. That is but one of my Seven Kingdoms, and it is _not _my home. My home is – "

Dany broke off, hearing the approaching sound of raised voices.

She arched her brows menacingly and steadied her grip on Drogon's neck, as the small rabble of noisy dwarves came strutting through the crowd.

One of the nicer looking specimens came striding right upto her, his chest puffed up pompously and his blue eyes flashing with anger.

"You must be the woman that thinks to summon me from my quarters like a dog."

The little fellow stopped mere inches away from her dragon, although it was somewhat hard to tell from her view so high up. Two of his comrades had taken up flanking positions beside him – and evidently had more wisdom than he did despite their youth.

Their faces were fearful.

"Er, uncle – "

"Look at the size of that thing!"

"I am Thorin Oakenshield of the line of Durin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and King Under the Mountain. These here are my nephews and heirs, Fili and Kili. And who do you think you are to fetch us here thus and name us your subjects, woman?"

Dany followed the younger dwarves' gaze with satisfaction. They obviously had some sense. She dug her fingers into Drogon's neck in silent command, bidding him step closer and lower himself to the little creatures, in a gesture that at once conveyed respect and also allowed them to have a much better view of the razor sharp teeth of her fire-breathing steed.

"I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of My Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. And... Pioneer of the Purple Portal."

Her violet coloured eyes flashed with pleasure at her powers of recall.

And as she'd hoped, the upstart dwarf's face fell somewhat as he realised she had a much larger – and sexier – collection of titles to her name than he did.

He was not to know that Missandei had made most of them up at Dany's request while they'd been battering into a good Dornish red.

Daenerys gestured to her steed with a maternal flourish. "And this is my eldest boy, Drogon. You can stroke him if you like – he won't bite. Not unless I ask him to."

The foolish dwarf king shook his long black hair and stared back at her with unvarnished disdain.

"I see you must be well versed in witchcraft to command such a fell beast, so what can I do for you, your eminency?"

The dragon queen pointed up at the mountain.

"I hear you have rather an infestation up there, and I'm particularly attached to the _beasts_myself – the blood of the dragon runs through my veins. So I thought we might come to some kind of arrangement. I will give you your mountain back, and you will help me take my Seven Kingdoms back from the usurpers that stole them from me!"

The dwarf's scowl dropped in an instant.

"You would rid us of Smaug?"

Daenerys nodded.

The dwarf king's face grew suspicious.

"And afterwards, no doubt you will seek a claim on the gold that lies buried in our mountain. Tell me, _friend,_ how much will you want for performing such a miracle?"

The dragon queen scoffed.

"I don't want your gold, _dwarf._ The goldmines of the Lannisters in my westernmost kingdom shall give me all the coin I require – after I have destroyed their evil Queen Cersei, liberated my capital at King's Landing, and taken back the Seven Kingdoms that were stolen from my murdered family by the treacherous usurpers!"

The small blonde dwarf piped up beside his king.

"Uncle, it sounds like a noble quest, full of honour and glory. We help restore an ancient dynasty to their proper family seat, and they do the same for us. It's almost like her fantastical story is a mirror of our own, just with a different kind of villain."

His brown haired brother nodded.

"Fili's right, uncle. Plus if we can merge her story on to our own, maybe we will have a better kind of ending this time round?"

The dwarf king scowled, but they all knew the decision had been made.

"Very well then. We will help you, _Mother of Dragons._ We will fight in your armies, and slay your enemies – as long as you remove Smaug from our mountain, to leave us all in peace forever after, and promise you will lay no claim to our gold."

Daenerys nodded graciously.

"Thank you, my friends. I shall journey to your mountain right now. Would you care to join me? You will be quite safe, I assure you."

Drogon lowered a wing to the dwarves' feet, before they had time to refuse. And the three little creatures climbed reluctantly onto the back of her dragon, none of them wanting to admit their fear in front of the others.

Now she could see them properly, Dany marvelled at how much better looking these three were than all the other dwarves she'd ever known – in her own fictional fantasyverse as well as this one. The plotholes of this strange new world were still mostly hidden to her stranger's eyes – but this was one glaring exception.

Back on the pier, the dark haired bowman was scratching his head thoughtfully.

"Your majesty, are you expecting any more of your _countrymen _to come through that portal? Shall I assemble the Laketown guards and have them on stand-by?"

Dany nodded, staring back at the glowing purple doorway with a sense of apprehension.

"Yes, Bard – at once. I fear that Cersei's forces will not be far behind me – and it may be some time before I can station my Dothraki cavalry here to defend the town."

She wondered briefly whether to mention the Night King, and the other horrors that could come pouring through the portal and into this innocent new world – but really, what was the point?

The Night King was dead, staked through his icy heart by the youngest and most invincible of all the Starks, and his name only lingered on as a shallow promise of doom – a tale of misguided foreshadowing and epic disappointment that would be passed on in legend for generations to come. The people of this fanverse had no need to know of such terrors, not without good cause.

And as Drogon took off from the pier and circled high towards the peak of the Lonely Mountain, Daenerys Targaryen steeled her heart against such defeatist inner monologues once and for all.

The Night King was dead, and that was all there was to his story.

Wasn't it...?


	5. Chapter 5

Note: This week we travel back to Season 3 Dragonstone - which has now been similarly afflicted by the purple portal's sinister appearance, and everyone's favourite fire priestess has decided that this tear in the dimensionality of worlds could be just the lucky break that House Baratheon needs to get the job done once and for all...

* * *

Shivering into his thick woollen cloak, cold Ser Davos eyed the burning statues jealously.

The Red Woman had set them there, on the beach, just so she could prance around in her figure-hugging dress and light them up to her god of pyromania – and he was sick of it. Sick of the cold, sick of this dreary island, and sick of listening to her pointless prophecies that never came true.

He met the eyes of the fire priestess with a grumpy scowl, and saw her smile brightly back at him from the shadows. She obviously knew he was freezing his bollocks off. And was loving every minute of it.

"Lord of Light, come to us in our Darkness. We offer you these false gods. Take them and cast your light upon us. For the night is dark and full of terrors."

Ser Davos shook his head, struck again by the inanity of the ritual.

None of them here on Dragonstone even knew what Benioff and Weiss looked like – and the crudely hewn wooden statues appeared to be something Princess Shireen had knocked up with a lumphammer and crayon set in the darkness of her cell.

There had to be a better way than this to save the world. There had to be allies they could find in this brave new universe across the purple portal. Allies that would not care who sat on the Iron Throne, but who might join them in their quest to overthrow the HBO scriptwriters, and install some proper talent in their place.

But as usual, in the face of reason and adversity the Red Woman was undaunted. She continued her invocation to the Lord of Light.

"After the long decade of success, darkness will fall bitter on the world of Ice and Fire_._ Stars will bleed and be cajoled into launching impromptu defences of the plot butchery on live TV. The cold breath of fan apathy will freeze the planned prequels. And the dead shall rise in the North – because it would be more expensive for HBO to film an ice zombie battle sequence in the sunlit streets of King's Landing."

The Red Woman held her arms aloft and addressed the assembled Baratheon forces.

"In the GRR Martin books it is written that a warrior will draw a burning sword from the fire. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, because it will illuminate the mysteries of the plot and forge a cathartic resolution of the main story purpose."

She smiled enigmatically, and beckoned the king over to the low-lying stone altar.

"Stannis Baratheon, warrior of light – your sword awaits you."

And with a cursory nod to Mel, the gruff old soldier raised his Baratheon blade in salute to the burning effigies of the HBO showrunners, and brought it down full-force upon the heap of discarded _Game of Thrones_ merchandise that Salladhor Saan had retrieved from Blackwater Bay.

Davos winced as a stray plastic shard from a DVD box set whizzed past his face.

All this violence, this destruction and rage – what purpose did it serve?

The Night King was dead, and their whole fantasyverse existence had all been for nothing – but that nothing was still a lot more than a lad like him growing up in Fleabottom had ever dreamt of. And it could all have been so much worse for House Baratheon, whose premature culling in the earlier seasons had at least allowed it to retain its dignity at the Season Eight sackcloth and ashes wrap party.

In a sense, House Baratheon were the real winners here, even if Stannis had never even got close to claiming his younger brother's Iron Throne – which belonged to him by right of all the laws in Westeros.

Davos watched his chosen king finish hacking up the glossy Season One Khaal Drogo posters and 'Hear Me Roar' mugs. This was all madness. This was all woo.

This was what happened when people chose demagogic speakers with imaginary divine rights to rule instead of putting their trust in the laws of men!

"You look cold, ser Davos. Does the Lord of Light's vision not warm you?"

The Red Woman had sidled up to him now the ceremony was over. The soldiers were retreating back into the burning hearths of the Dragonstone castle, leaving only the pair of them to watch Stannis' attack on the discarded fan relics of a bygone age.

"My lady, there have to be better ways than this. Saner ways. Cleaner ways. More effective ways of reaching out to disgruntled fans and winning their allegiance."

The Red Woman's eyes sparked with mirth.

"And what would you suggest, Ser Davos? Make some angry YouTube videos? Write a petition to HBO?"

The fire witch smirked.

"Our way is the only way. The Lord of Light has shown it to me himself, in the flames. The path to victory is clear, and shall be ours. Yours and mine."

The Red Woman's voice was light, and teasing. It set Davos' teeth on edge.

"And his."

He nodded to their erstwhile ruler, locking swords with a small plastic figurine of Jaimie Lannister. Stannis had got his sword embedded within the squashed mass of the figurine's arm, and was struggling to free it.

It appeared that the Lannisters still held the upper hand against House Baratheon.

The Red Woman cocked her head to the side and studied his unhappy face.

"You are full of doubts, Ser Davos. But there really is no need. I will show you the one who has spoken to me in the flames. I shall summon him now, and you shall see. We have all the allies we will ever need – in this world and the next."

Davos felt the woman's arm, warm and soothing, steer him gently towards the beachside bonfire of the vanities. He followed her gaze, into the blazing heart of the scarlet flames, and felt his blood run cold as ice.

For Melisandre of Asshai was right. All this time, he'd thought she was just making up her visions, and saying whatever was convenient to manoeuvre Stannis into the position she best wanted him – but now he could see her vision too!

He could see a mountain in the flames. Shaped like an arrowhead. But with molten rock and pyroclastic fumes spewing forth from the top – and sinister hooded figures riding jagged-toothed winged eels around its summit.

They were growling and snarling. And worse – there was a huge flaming eye on top of the mountain! It gazed at him, with all the heat and fury of a thousand suns, and in his heart he felt its awful charring blackness.

Melisandre nodded happily.

"The Lord of Light, Ser Davos. Here he is. We must go to him at once. For the Night-King is dead, and the plot needs some new terrors."

Ser Davos tore his gaze away, speechless and appalled, and turned back to Stannis.

The one true king had finally managed to best the Lannister toy, and stared back with satisfied, pitiless eyes.

"We leave at sunrise, Ser Davos. The purple portal has opened up over the Blackwater, and tomorrow we shall sail straight through it to seek out the one ally who will give me what is mine by right."

Davos spun round, feeling his sense of horror rising within. And sure enough, on the inky black sealine he could just about make out the wavering, purple glow of the doorway to the mysterious new world. The world of the huge flaming eye, and gods only knew what else...

His hand rose in silent prayer to his 'lucky' fingerbones, now worn around his neck thanks to Stannis' immaculate sense of justice and fair play.

Whatever that huge flaming eye was, he had faith in one thing at least – that fire god or not, Stannis Baratheon would take orders from no agent of evil, not unless it had filed the correct paperwork and followed due bureaucratic process. And impressive as they were, flying leviathans and ghostly wraiths were unlikely to take such legal obligations as seriously as they would need in order to win over this particular king's allegiance.

Ser Davos nodded, accepting the challenge ahead. They would journey together to the new world, and seek out new allies – and he would prove once and for all to Stannis that you didn't need black magic, sacrificial offerings, or the ageless unspeakable faces of ceaseless evil at your side to take the Iron Throne.


	6. Chapter 6

Note: Before we go back to the good guys, we must first take a detour to King's Landing and check in on the one true Mad Queen and her evil genius Hand, who are not likely to let an opportunity such as the purple portal go to waste...

* * *

Maester Qyburn rubbed his hands together in glee, staring at the strange forest vision that now lay marooned on the mudflats of Blackwater Bay, close enough that he could make out the unfamiliarity of the trees' genus and species even from the Red Keep's balcony without his reading glasses.

The purple portal's shimmering aura of otherworldy plot potential had washed up on the shores of King's Landing by the Mud Gate during the night, and the city's Maesters had been duly reading the augurs all day long, whilst squabbling over the meaning of the strange new apparition.

The more superstitious among them whispered cryptically that it was a punishment sent by the Seven, obviously vengeful at the destruction of their Sept and the massacre of the Holy Innocents by the Wicked Queen Cersei – for such an egregious act of religious intolerance must surely set a debt not even the Lannisters could pay back – whilst others blamed its appearance on the coming of the Targaryen queen from the East, and her barbarous hordes of Dothraki screamers, demonic cryptids and quasi-socialist would-be revolutionaries.

Learned Maesters from the Citadel had long ago hypothesised of the existence of such extra-dimensional glitches in the physical matrix that bound space and time together in their known world order.

Indeed, it was said that the uncanny pirate sharp-shooter Euron Greyjoy must be harnessing portals such as this in his seamanly craft of teleportation around their continent – for his miraculously swift command of the tides presented a noted discrepancy in the carefully measured plot timelines that had been baffling the brightest minds amongst all the Maesters for several seasons now.

The more theoretical amongst their brethren suspected that there were wonders of science hitherto undreamt of by the Westerosi philosophy in the mysterious lands of the East, and some amongst them secretly hoped to acquire mastery of this new transport mechanism in exchange for Euron Greyjoy's rumoured battleship cloaking device – or at least his self-aiming ballista technology – and believed that the revelatory mechanics of the new discovery would usher in a great new era of scientific enquiry to rejuvenate the flagging cultural malaise that had descended across Westeros since Robert Baratheon had drunkenly seized the Iron Throne and cut their tenure.

But Qyburn knew better.

He was a real scientist, and he dared to dream where others feared to even look.

To his mind, the statistical improbability of a lewd and libidinous one-trick plot pony like Euron having the scientific flair to command the inner workings of the multiverse was laughable. The guy didn't even have the wit to wear a scary pirate eye patch to go with his persona! But yet the drunken sailor's stunning military successes did point to one thing – there were clearly outside forces aiding the cosplay-Jack-Sparrow-wannabe – and the identity of those hidden forces interested Qyburn greatly.

He turned to face his benevolent blonde-haired patron, bestowing a gracious nod in her direction and noting her half empty cup.

"Would you care for some more wine, your Grace?"

The Mad Queen smiled narrowly back.

"Pour yourself one too, Qyburn. And let us toast, to our new _endeavour._ And tell me, how soon will it be until the new Lannister army is assembled?"

Qyburn considered. There were so many moving parts in the equation.

Mostly they were moving body parts that had been retrieved from the wreckage of the Sept of Baellor's explosion, and it was proving to be quite some task to assemble a whole new model army from the multitude of stumpy legs and charred torsos that remained of the Queen's enemies. But luckily, it was a task that Qyburn's brain was equal too – him, and his crack team of resurrected Franken-sparrows.

The missing link in the ability to create sentience where none previously existed – an ability that petty-minded mortals believed to be the premise of the divine – had fallen into his lap with the ice zombie's severed hand. The problem of autonomous replication had been unwittingly revealed by the tales of the slow-brained Northman Jon Snow in the Dragon Pit – a moralist crybaby who barely understood the significance of what he was freely reporting to the ears of the Citadel's sharpest ex-student, and Qyburn had immediately set the apron-clad Mountain to this secret new work, deep in the subterranean bosom of the Red Keep, with a small scalpel and a deeper purpose in mind...

To explore strange new ways of extending the Lannister army.

To seek out new powers of man over the divine.

And to boldly extend the algorithmical reach of his creation exponentially by making his cadaverous lab-technician self-replicate.

And now the patchwork Lannister Franken-sparrows were running the assembly process themselves, eager to recruit more unclaimed body parts to their glorious legion! All he needed was more corpse material to input into the design vector, and Cersei would have an army that would make the Night King well jealous.

His bright eyes sparkled with the light of his unhinged discovery.

"Soon, your Grace – very soon. We have more than enough _muscle_ to take on the Targaryen hordes, and to conquer whatever lands may be visible through that portal."

Cersei sneered in memory.

"Oh yes, and our Lannister _expeditionary force_ is already out there – how could I have forgotten?"

The queen took a deep slug of her wine, as if the taste of the sour grapes could wash away the remembrance of her hated father's mission briefing.

"Lord Tywin and his men should be back soon with a full report of the new world, your Grace. No doubt there is much gold to be had, and much _material _for your new Lannister force."

After all this time, Qyburn still found it strange that Cersei had ordered him to resurrect her father. All her life she had hated the man, and now she had appointed him head of her troops, and sent him out as her envoy to the new world beyond the portal.

Of course, the mental acuity of Tywin remained undimmed by the curtain of death – but so did the shared belligerence between him and his daughter.

But the hearts of humans were not something that interested Qyburn particularly. At least, not unless they were ice-packed and transplantable, ready to serve science and beat once again to his own dark programmatical logic.

The Queen fixed her gimlet eyes upon him, taking in the measure of his confidence like a snake sizing up its prey.

She opened her mouth to retort back – and closed it at once.

There was a knock at the door, and the servant girl's nervously delivered message.

"Your Grace, please forgive me, but we have some urgent visitors for you. Your _father_... said you should receive them at once. They are from the other world, your Grace."

The Mad Queen rolled her eyes and set her wine glass down angrily. She hated taking summons from her father – especially now he was just a corpse and she was the Queen! Even now, from beyond the grave, he was mocking her, sending summons to her – treating her like a fool – even though she was smarter, more successful and way more murderous than either of her idiot wastrel brothers...

And yet deep down, in the depths of her shrivelled and twisted heart, she relished the moment's familiarity and self-pitying outrage and glowed with internal self-righteousness. The anger made her feel young again. It made her feel good.

"Send them in then, and be done with it. And bring us more wine!"

The Mad Queen downed what remained of her Dornish refreshment in one fell swig, and waved her glass aggressively at the servant, as the travellers from the strange new world were ushered into the chambers by armed Lannister guards.

Cersei nearly spat out the wine in disbelief.

"What is the meaning of this? _Dwarves?_ My father mocks me with dwarves?"

The two little creatures stared back at her balefully, clutching cloaks around their filthy clothes.

The fairer haired and fatter of the two spoke first.

"Begging your pardon, Ma'am, but we ain't no dwarves – we're hobbits, of the Shire."

Cersei's green eyes flashed back in abject hostility.

"You're stunted little runts like my beastly brother. I should have you thrown into the sea right now!"

The darker haired of the two shook his head.

"No, you mustn't! If you kill us, we'll never be able to destroy the Ring. Your father sent us here, he said we'd be safe, that you would protect us, and let us use Euron's teleporter to get to Mount Doom!"

Cersei blinked, and Qyburn could see that she was struggling to contain her rage at having her wine time interrupted by this strange request – and as her loyal Hand, it was his duty to help her handle the situation tactfully, and gracefully – and there was no sense in mangling such useful body parts unnecessarily, even if these dwarves were a bit on the short side.

After all, if Cersei wanted a healthier outlet for all the pent-up stresses of her high command, then she could always summon zombie Bobby B to her chambers later on, and have a more even slanging match. She'd always enjoyed those in the past.

Qyburn stepped forward from the shadows and addressed the two foreigners.

"And what is this ring that you speak of? Your Queen will do all she can to assist you, but first she needs to know that you can both be trusted. What help do you need from her?"

The two little creatures looked doubtful, and unwilling to answer the eminently reasonable questions that had been put to them. Qyburn was about to try again, when Cersei spoke up.

Her voice was tight, and giddy with excitement.

"What's that? Around your neck? Show it to me."

The darker haired creature saw the direction of her gaze, and flinched.

"Go on, Mister Frodo, we can just dump it in this world and go home!"

And at his friend's prompting, the strange little creature reluctantly scuttled up to the Queen, and removed the item he wore around his neck.

It was chain carrying a golden ring – plain and unadorned, yet sparkling with a beautifully precious lustre, the like of which was at once enchanting and soulfully beguiling.

The little creature held it out in offering to Cersei Lannister, whose green eyes were all over it in covetous desire.

Qyburn frowned as he watched, and heard a sudden gust of the wind in the corners of the room – as if ancestral spirits were uttering whispered warnings to him from the spectral afterlife, horrified by the sight of this piece of otherwordly jewellery in the darkening chambers of the Red Keep.

Something buried deep in Qyburn's razor-sharp mind urged him to stop this handover ceremony at once – for who knew where such a trinket might have been, and what alchemical traces of madness might linger on it? But nonetheless he was curious. He wanted to see what would happen.

The dark ghosts of superstition had no power over his purity of enquiry.

The golden ring was passed to Cersei Lannister, who stared at it before putting the chain around her own neck.

And the two little creatures breathed a sigh of relief as their burden was lifted.

"It's so precious. I shall wear it always."

The Mad Queen's voice was happy and entranced, as if she was stroking the golden hair of her now-zombie children. She fondled the chain around her neck, smiling down at the ring as though it were a precious newborn.

Qyburn stared at the dishevelled travellers in suspicion.

"I think I should take a look at it later, your Grace – in the confines of my lab. It's a curious metal, and there is much to be learned from its maker's craft, no doubt."

The Queen waved her hand.

"If you like, but I shall come with you. I want to learn what it is you find, Qyburn. And don't think for a minute that you can steal it away from me – the ring is a gift, a precious gift – to me and me alone!"

The blonde haired creature frowned, and his dark haired companion wailed in anguish.

"I was sent on a quest to destroy it, your majesty! The ring has many powers, but all of them are evil. Your father said you would help us throw it into the fire pits of Mount Doom, so its evil would be destroyed forever."

The Queen chuckled at the thought.

"Did he now? Well, whatever Tywin Lannister has told you, you can disregard it at once. You come here, to my world – to my chambers – and bring me a gift such as this, and then tell me to destroy it?"

The Queen shook her head, and nodded to her guards.

"Take them to the black cells, and lock them up. I'll decide what to do with them later."

The two little creatures were manhandled out of the room, kicking and wailing, while Cersei stared down lovingly at her new ring of power. Qyburn had to admit that it suited her – the golden sparkle set off her blonde hair perfectly, and the ring's warped aura of evil gave her green eyes a monstrously venomous chill-factor that he knew would keep her restless bannermen in line until she'd seen off the Targaryen threat.

The Queen met his gaze, and smiled.

"This ring has come to me for a reason, Qyburn. It is a gift. A gift to the foes of the dragon queen. Let us use it against her at once."

And Qyburn stared with widening eyes of his own as he gazed upon the golden ring, hearing its urging in his head – listening to its gentle hum as it told of secret far-away places and dreadful midnight rituals, the likes of which had never been written about in any of the libraries or citadel spires of the Seven Kingdoms or beyond...

But they would be soon.

They would soon be written in blood – in the blood of Cersei's enemies, and whoever else was foolish enough to stand in the way of their shared dream of pushing the boundaries of what it meant to be fully human in the post-Baratheon, post-Sparrow wastelands of Westerosi science.

The ring had spoken – and it had a new owner now. And she did not share power.

But she might share knowledge – with her loyal Hand and faithful servant, at least. And together, the two of them would usher in a new reign of discovery in the Seven Kingdoms that would make the Night King's escapades look like a child's fairy story!


	7. Chapter 7

Note: We rejoin Daenerys in Middle Earth, in the middle of her plan to recruit more dragons to her cause - but in the dwarvish mountain kingdom of Erebor a mysterious stranger brings her some news. Will it be good news for Dany? Of course not! It'll be someone else wanting a loan of one of her dragons for free, with nothing but some fine words and moral blackmail up their big grey sleeve!

* * *

The main door to the mountain kingdom of Erebor loomed grim in front of her, and Daenerys was beginning to see a problem with her dragon-bagging plan.

Her comrades had described the main door to her as being 'huge', 'massive', and ' very large' – but being dwarves, they naturally had a skewed perspective on such things.

She should have anticipated this error of judgement, for she'd seen it happen before – there had been many a time when Lord Tyrion had told her he was going to have a 'small cup of wine', and she'd found him hours later rolling around on the Great Pyramid pantry floor singing that strange song about 'Red Ros' and the Spider's gash.

Whoever was actually to blame for the misunderstanding, it was plain for them all to see that there was no way Drogon was going to fit through the dwarvish doorway. She would have to go in and waken the dragon all alone. Unless her little friends wanted to test how fireproof they were, that was.

After all, according to them – they were already dead. And even more puzzlingly, they claimed that they'd only just realised this fact.

They'd told her that the three of them had died, but had then come back to life and found themselves in Laketown again, endlessly reliving their plot arcs unwittingly – until the sky had torn itself apart in a purple explosion and she had shown up riding her dragon.

Dany had initially been suspicious that they might be zombie minions of the Night King, but it appeared that something in this world was far stranger than hers, or they were in fact mistaken. For his part anyway, Thorin seemed hopeful that her appearance heralded a new dawn for the age of dwarves in his world, and Dany was already mentally sounding out _Saviour of the Khazâd_ to her ever-growing list of well-earned epithets.

Sansa Stark could chew on that.

Perhaps the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms would have the Lady of Winterfell stitch up a commemorative tapestry of the Saviour's daring exploits in so-called 'Middle Earth', with dragon-motif banners and red and black lettering proclaiming the newly extended list of her titles, to hang up beside the tatty Stark direwolf banners in the Great Hall? It would make such a good example of Sansa's fine designs, and show the rest of the scheming Northerners what their real Queen was made of.

And all Dany needed now was the centrepiece dragon for the adulatory crowds to witness when she flew back through that portal...

She frowned, channelling her eyebrows for all they were worth.

"But how did the other dragon get inside? There must be another way in!"

The dark haired king under the mountain scowled angrily.

"He used this door! I'm telling you, _my Khaleesi_ – this is the way in."

Thorin could not – or would not – lower himself to refer to the silver-haired lady as his 'Queen' just yet, and Dany was so far willing to allow him to compromise by using her older, and more exotic title. It suited her just fine. She needed the dwarf king's assistance. And as long as he was going to back her over Cersei for the Iron Throne she would indulge his temperamental eccentricities.

For now.

No doubt in good time, a bit of well-placed dragonfire would train his mind on the benefits to his future health and happiness of bending the knee – whatever the survival status of his current plot arc. But that particular battle could wait. She had a war against the usurpers to win first.

"Look, both of you – it's obvious what we need to do."

Dany turned to listen to the fairer haired of Thorin's nephews, who obviously saw himself as the voice of reason among their little family trio.

The blonde pointed nonchalantly at the doorway.

"That stone wall will melt won't it? We can blast our way in with Drogon! We don't need a key for this door. Not when your dragon can melt a big hole through the mountainside."

The eyes of his brother lit up in excitement.

"Yeah, give us a demo, Dany? Show us what Drogon can do!"

Beside her, Thorin spluttered in fury.

"This is the ancient Front Gate of Erebor! Have you any idea of how many ages this door has stood for, against the ravages of time, elves, and dragon fire alike?"

His nephews shrugged.

"You will not burn it down, my Khaleesi. I forbid you!"

Dany sighed in exasperation.

"Well how else can I get in to steal – I mean recruit – your dragon? Do you expect me to leave Drogon outside, with the three of you?"

She reached up to stroke the muzzle of her eldest boy, hearing him whine in protest at the suggestion of being left out of his mother's adventures. For Drogon was a good boy, and deserved better treatment than what Jon and the HBO CGI team had meted out to poor old Ghost.

Thorin fixed her with a pointed stare, and said nothing.

Dany pursed her lips.

"Fine. Drogon will stay out here and guard the door. But I warn you – he'll be getting hungry soon. And when he's hungry..."

She flashed her eyebrows threateningly at the dwarf king.

The arrogance melted away from his face in a second.

"Right, well – no sense in you going in alone, is there? We'll be your escort inside, my Khaleesi. We don't want you taking a wrong turn and getting lost inside the depths of our mountain now, do we?"

Dany gestured to the door.

"Or finding my way to your secret stash of jewels, you mean? Lead the way in then, Lord Thorin. Take me to _Smog the Terrible_."

The king under the mountain stepped up to the centre of the gate, and gave a hesitant push.

The large stone door swung open at his touch, evidently unlocked. Perhaps the current resident didn't feel the need for normal security measures, despite the amount of buried treasure the dwarves kept boasting that their vaults contained.

Inside of the mountain, the air was damp and musty – and heavy with the scent of dragon piss. Lovely and homey, for a true-born Targaryen Queen.

"How long did you say your dragon has been here?"

Further up ahead with the torch, the dwarf king shook his fist.

"He's not_ our _dragon! He stole our mountain and ate all our people. We've been living in exile ever since he came. Waiting for the day we would return, and reclaim what was stolen from us."

Dany winced.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't realise. I grew up in exile too, you know. So you're trying to reclaim your rightful ancestral throne as well then? Did the Lannisters send their regards to you via the dragon – they don't have any dragons of their own here, do they?"

She felt a sudden sense of forged comradeship with the dwarf king and his simple quest for justice. And also the beginnings of a plan to cement her new world alliance and ensure these 'friends' didn't back away as soon as she'd ridden them of their scaly household pest.

The little party reached a flight of steps, and the dwarf king pointed to the vaults.

"It's not much further now, down here."

Dany thought she could hear movement from below already. Her dragon-senses were tingling, and she was eager to be rid of these flammable companions and meet her new weapon in the war against both the treacherous usurpers and the shade thrown by Sansa Snark's tedious Season Eight bitchface.

"You three, why don't you wait here? There's no sense in my dwarvish vanguard all being burned alive."

The dwarf king frowned, and his nephews shared a puzzled glance.

"But... surely you need our protection?" said the blonde.

"You could hold my hand if you get scared down there?" said the brunette.

"Right you are then, my Khaleesi." Thorin Oakenshield pointed the way. "On you go. Don't get yourself killed or we'll all be stuck listening to you here forever."

Dany ventured down the stairs, wondering what to expect from this foreign-world dragon. She'd imagined Drogon could do most of the bargaining for her, but now she'd have to just wake this dragon herself and hope for the best.

As long as she stayed away from its claws and teeth she should be fine.

"_Who goes there intruding on my mountain? Who dares to disturb my slumber?"_

Dany jumped in fright, and realised she was standing right in front of the dwarvish gold hoard – and its fire-breathing guardian was fast approaching her, slithering through an expanse of gold so wide it would make the Iron Bank blush.

And astonishingly, in this strange new world it seemed the dragons could talk! And something in this one's honeyed voice reminded her disconcertingly of her deranged brother, Viserys. Though hopefully this dragon was more heat resistant than he had proven to be.

"I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and I've travelled here from another world just to meet you and make your acquaintance, Smog."

The dragon reared up in front of her, sniffing out the inherent inflammability of her ancient magical bloodline with its massive set of nostrils.

"You look like you're a woman, but you smell... just _divine."_

The dragon's lizard-like eyes widened in surprise.

"Did you come alone to see me, my dear? Are you single?"

Dany smiled. It was gratifying when her legendary beauty had the desired effect on mortal males. Whatever the species, they mostly proved to be pleasantly biddable when confronted by a nice set of tits and a mystical ability to harness the cleansing elemental purity of annihilation by fire.

"I've come here with a proposition for you, Smog."

The dragon purred with interest.

"Is it a marriage proposal? I've amassed all this shiny gold for the right kind of girl."

Dany shook her head, trying to let the dragon down gently.

"No, Smog. At least... not for you anyway."

The dragon growled in disappointment, and whirled around in the hoard of gold.

"Then what do want then, you little tease? Are these riches not enough? You woke me up from my eternal loneliness, just to play with me and discard me like a rusty penny. It's very cruel of you."

Dany smiled gently, and took a step closer.

"You don't have to be lonely anymore, Smog. You could join me, and my other dragons. I could show you a whole new world – shining, shimmering, splendid – where you could fly free and burn as many of my enemies as you like!"

The dragon giggled darkly at the thought.

"Oh, stop your wicked flirting."

Dany shook her head, trying to look serious.

"It's not a joke, Smog. Don't you get bored down here?"

The dragon's voice was sad.

"All the time, but I have my gold to keep me company. That – and the memories of all the people I killed. And sometimes, I do get visitors. Burglars, robbers, thieves. They come to feed me, every once in a while."

Dany put a hand on the reptile's hide, soft and easy so as not to scare him.

"Don't you wish you had some living people to roast, Smog? It's what dragons are for – torching people alive. If you come with me, there would be no end to the burnings. I have a whole army of usurpers who stole my crown, and you'd be doing me such a favour by incinerating them for me, that I could give you an entire castle all to yourself to nest in?"

The dragon's voice was wistful.

"A castle all of my own? With a view? And some company?"

Dany nodded.

"That's right, and it wouldn't just be a castle beside some fishy-odoured lake either. There's a castle right by the sea you could have. Casterley Rock. Home of House Lannister."

The dragon contemplated.

"You're tempting me. But how can I know what you say is true? How do I know you're not lying to steal my gold?"

Dany considered.

"Because if it turns out I'm lying, then... you can burn my husband alive!"

The dragon blinked his eyes.

"You have a husband? But I thought you came alone, my dear?"

Dany nodded, trying to look convincing.

"Yep, of course I have a husband. He's a dwarf. In fact, this is his mountain."

The dragon's eyes narrowed in rage.

"No! You brought one of those creatures here? To _my _mountain!"

Dany stroked the scaly skin again, seeing the dragon's anger flaring. She might have been flame-retardant herself, but her Season Eight wardrobe wasn't. Her sudden sartorial taste for angular shoulder pads and dictator-style military boots had been as mystifying to herself as it had been hard to come by – Salladhor Saan had told Missandei that the clothes had come from an evil empire in a galaxy far, far away – and the pricetag on the statement pieces he'd sourced told Dany that he may not have been entirely joking.

"You don't need this mountain, Smog. You will have all the mountains in the Westerlands to nest inside, with all the gold of Casterley Rock too!"

The dragon considered.

"Alright, I'll come and have a look at this Casterley Rock – but there better be at least twice as much gold as in here, or I'm coming right back and your husband is toast! Let me pack some things, and I will find you outside, _my dear."_

Dany smiled, and watched as her latest recruit slithered through the golden pile, seemingly eager to begin on its long winding journey to help her destroy her Westerosi usurper problems one by one. Starting with the treacherous golden lions of Casterley Rock!

And with a victorious smile, she returned to her friends. They seemed somewhat surprised to see her return so quickly – and unburnt – but she was sure there was definite relief on their faces.

"In order to seal our alliance and remove your dragon, there is one small condition now attached. I need to marry one of you. And I don't care which. Whichever one of you is the least annoying."

The three of them stared back at her open-mouthed. It wasn't the most pleasing reaction she could have imagined to her gallant and generous offer.

She sniffed, and turned to appraise the dwarf king.

Thorin scowled right back at her, seemingly insulted at her mere suggestion of marriage – and Dany recoiled inwardly. This one was too wilful and headstrong. And definitely too annoying.

She turned to fair haired Fili.

But this one looked displeasingly worried by her proposal. And his hair was the wrong colour. People might think she'd married a Lannister imp, and how would she ever live a nasty rumour like that down once Sansa started spreading it around the Seven Kingdoms?

She turned to dark eyed Kili.

And from a certain direction of the light, there was something of the long-forgotten Daario Naharis to the floppy-haired and smoulderingly attractive young dwarf. Yes, this one would do. For a while, anyway.

Maybe it would even make Jon Snow's half-icy Stark blood burn with envy, and the King of the North would forget his prudish prohibitions against interfamilial romance! She could always dump the dwarf in Slaver's Bay with Daario when Jon came to his senses and the usurpers were destroyed.

"You. You can be my husband."

The brown haired dwarf's eyes widened, and he turned to his brother with a sly smile.

"What did I tell you, she's not blind!"

Dany regarded the dwarf king smugly.

"Excellent. Then we have a deal. Smog will meet us outside, and Kili shall fly him back to the Winterfell Godswood. It's high time I returned with Drogon to check up on my Northern subjects – and I'll need you and Fili to remain here and guard Laketown in case Cersei's forces arrive on the lake."

The blonde dwarf looked upset.

"You can't take Kili without me – we come as a pair! Our names rhyme and everything."

And the dwarf king nodded.

"My Khaleesi, a dwarvish retinue shall be deployed to hold Erebor at once, but we shall all return with you to your world, fulfil our vows – and then return to this mountain where we belong."

Daenerys frowned, about to argue back – but a strange noise from behind her caught her ears. It sounded like someone... _wheezing?_

Beside her the dwarf king stared up in shock.

"Gandalf the Grey? What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

And sure enough – Dany turned to see an old man was wheezing his way down the steps, rushing down them two at a time despite carrying a gnarly old walking stick – in an obvious hurry to reach them all.

Daenerys frowned.

"Who are you, and how did you get past my dragon?"

The old man waved a hand, and offered her a twinkling smile.

"Your dragon recognised me as a friend, Khaleesi. For I bring you tidings of your home-world – tidings you must hear at once!"

Dany stared around at her three friends, noting they were just as surprised by this grey-robed apparition as she was.

"Tell me then, sir – what must I hear?"

The old man shook his head seriously.

"It has taken no time at all for the evil in your world to ally with the evil in ours. And now it seems your enemies have taken something from our world – something which has no business existing anywhere, let alone in King's Landing – and we must all unite to defeat this great evil, or we shall be consumed by darkness forever."

Dany rolled her eyes. The old man sounded just like Jon Snow – and no doubt also wanted her to sacrifice another dragon on behalf of some half-baked scheme to save the world – or capture some trinket that would lead to everyone else's eternal salvation.

Why couldn't they all just wait until she was sitting on the Iron Throne, with the full military might of the Seven Kingdoms at her disposal, before they brought all their begging requests over to her? She literally had no forces to spare, and the Night King was long dead, anyway.

"And let me guess – you want my dragon?"

The old man smiled.

"I want a _lift _on your dragon, Khaleesi. We all need to head straight back to Winterfell immediately – something terrible is on its way there, and if you and your dragons cannot stop it, then I am afraid we are all doomed."

The dwarf king blinked.

"Gandalf, do you mean – "

The grey wizard nodded sharply.

"Yes, Thorin. I have sent for Aragorn, and the Riders of Rohan. Even the elves are heading into battle. The enemy will strike hard, first at Winterfell, and then at Gondor – where the forces of Stannis Baratheon have just landed."

Dany sucked in a breath. Wasn't Stannis dead? What was going on here?

"Pardon me, but... how can that be? House Baratheon is no more."

The old grey-haired wizard smiled sympathetically.

"It's the purple portal, Khaleesi. Strange forces are at play now. And there is no telling what may happen next. Our worlds are being interfered with – interfered with from outside. But we do know something – our enemy has the One Ring, and he will soon turn his attention to Gondor and Winterfell, and the only one who can stop him... is _you."_

Daenerys Stormborn sighed, and thought of the house with the red door and the lemon tree.

She saw the uncertainty on the faces of her new companions as they waited for her response.

And she thought about how sick she was of making lemonade with the constant hail of lemons that rained down on her.

But if the old man was right, then she was the only one who could be the Saviour of _Worlds._ How many glorious epithets could be woven into House Targaryen banners after this insurmountable display of generosity, bravery, and Fire and Blood – on behalf of not just one – but two grateful fantasyverses?

She nodded at the old man.

"Alright then. Count me in. And tell me, _Gandalf the Grey_ – apart from my dragons, what do you need from me?"


End file.
